


Velvet and Silk

by Agent_24



Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [6]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Flirting, M/M, Makeup, atlas ball, fairgameweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Atlas is a rich kingdom and its Academy dances are…a little fancy for Qrow’s taste. But if he’s going to be trapped in a giant ballroom full of mostly strangers, he might as well do it in pretty clothes and an elegant mask.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661305
Comments: 12
Kudos: 157





	Velvet and Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6: Atlas Ball/Mantle Battle

With Atlas being a military school, Qrow had figured their ball would be…well, boring and stuffy. But apparently, Atlas wealth and a strict code of conduct meant for a wild party when students and soldiers were allowed to cut loose, which is why he finds himself turning down an offer to dance for the third time since he arrived, and at a  _ masquerade, _ of all sorts of dances.

Admittedly, Qrow can see the allure of it all: the low lighting, the loud music, the outlandish clothes and the  _ masks.  _ But that hardly meant he’d wanted to be dragged into it. Not that he’d had a choice, with his entire gaggle of kids nearly dragging him here by force. Qrow would never argue against an excuse to dress up all pretty, but…

It was just…he doesn’t  _ know _ anybody.

That’s the trouble with traveling with a bunch of kids, he supposes. The pick of kindred company tends to be lacking.

He could dance, granted. He  _ would _ dance, if everyone who had asked him wasn’t a soldier type. Qrow doesn’t have a terrible interest in getting close to one of Jimmy’s lackeys when odds are that most of them are like Winter. Which doesn’t explain his growing attachment to a certain captain at all, but…well.

At least his nieces had enjoyed themselves in their crusade to doll him up. He’s decked out in all black, save for the rich, swirling silver stitched in sweeping patterns over his vest and a fine, satin red cloak hanging from his shoulders. At his open collar—because  _ fuck _ ties—lies a small, silver bird skull, and his mask is pleated with fine black feathers that extend from the eyes to nearly blend with his hair.

And the makeup, of course, which he feels was a bit unnecessary considering half his face is hidden anyways, but Yang would’ve kicked him if he’d denied Blake’s shy request, and he likes his kneecaps just where they are, thank you.

He looks good and he knows it, and so do half the dance attendees, apparently. Qrow turns down another offer and glances over at a tall figure poised elegantly at James’s side (James, who is dressed in fine navy blues and a glittering silver mask that does little to hide his identity, between his enormous stature and the state of his beard). 

The man beside him is dressed in a pressed black suit and tie with gold leaves and green flowers pressed in fine detail over the fabric and a crisp white shirt underneath, his mask an emerald green painted in a shimmering gold to match his clothes, and when he turns in the light, decorative black gems shine in the center of fine, dark flowers.

He looks lovely, and he’s been glancing in Qrow’s direction for the better part of an hour, but has yet to make an approach. 

Qrow lets him look a while longer before he checks on his nieces, happily dancing among their friends, then steps out for a bit of air.

Atlas parties were so  _ stuffy. _

Qrow steps out into the hall and heads for one of the balconies overlooking the academy gardens. He opens the extravagant double doors and pauses before stepping out into the cold air, aware of the faint sound of footsteps a ways behind him, and leans over the railing to admire the lights of the city. It’s beautiful from this high up, and for just a moment, he can almost imagine the wind is ruffling his feathers instead of the plastic plumes of his mask. 

Shame to think that beneath all this, Mantle streets look utterly desolate.

“Beautiful night,” a voice says, interrupting his train of thought.

Qrow glances back over his shoulder, an involuntary smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. “You can’t see any stars here,” he remarks, “with all this light pollution. You should see Patch on a clear night like this.” He waits, then beckons his surprise guest closer. “Shouldn’t you be playing diplomat with Jimmy?”

Clover laughs and steps out onto the balcony, leaning on the railing at Qrow’s side. “General Ironwood,” he corrects, “dismissed me for the night. Thought I’d come keep you company.” Underneath his mask, his eyes flit over Qrow’s form, landing for too long on his painted lips. “How’d you know it was me?”

Qrow snorts. “Like I don’t know your voice by now,  _ Alpha,”  _ he teases, and likes to think he can see a faint flush over Clover’s cheeks. “And besides, James sticks out like a sore thumb, and the only person in green I’d peg for being glued to his hip is you.”

“I’m not glued now,” Clover objects.

“I see that,” Qrow says with amusement. If his gaze wanders over Clover’s attire, it’s only because the gold pattern on his suit sticks out in the dark; it’s only because the night shadows does favors for his waistline, for the cut of his shoulders. “And how’d you know it was me, huh?”

Clover tilts his head, then reaches out and takes the edge of Qrow’s cloak, letting smooth satin slide through his fingers. Qrow thinks he’s going to say that the cloak gave him away, but Clover just murmurs, “As if I wouldn’t know you on sight just because your face is covered.”

Qrow’s mouth falls open, and he can feel a blush spreading over his entire body. If Clover knows what he’s done, he only shows it with a small smile that borders on tender.

While Qrow’s left speechless, Clover turns back towards the balcony, tilting his head up as the wind shivers by again. “So,” he says, “what are you doing out here all by yourself, anyways?”

Qrow startles, quickly finding his voice again and rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh…as much as I like these kinds of parties, it’s…been a while for me. And I don’t really know anyone, anyway.”

Clover glances over at him. His green eyes shine almost as much as his mask. “Besides me,” he points out.

Qrow huffs, turning to lean on the balcony again. “Besides you.”

“It would’ve been a good opportunity to get to know some more of our colleagues,” Clover says curiously. HIs gaze feels intense suddenly. “You don’t have any shortage of suitors in there.”

Qrow opens his mouth, then closes it. After a moment, he decides to be bold. “Maybe I wasn’t interested.”

Clover grins. “Not in any of them?”

Qrow’s heart kicks up in his chest. The wind out here is frigid, but somehow he feels too warm. Butterflies jump in his stomach, and his breath feels halfway caught in his throat. “None of the ones who asked me,” he says.

“What, you don’t like soldier types?” Clover asks, daring and looking all too pleased. 

Qrow snorts. “Not really, no.”

“…Except me,” Clover says, almost a challenge, his voice tipped just a little deeper, just a little bit sultry.

Qrow meets his eyes, challenging in his own right. There’s an unspoken dare between them, and Qrow wants to see it through, wants to push his luck for once. He says softly, “…Except you.” 

And Clover smiles wide and vibrant, sending Qrow’s heart into something near palpitations all over again. He steps back from the railing then. “What if I could promise you’d have a good time if you came back to the dance?”

“Promise?” Qrow muses, raising his brow. 

“Or your money back, guaranteed.”

Qrow laughs. “And how can you promise me that?”

“Because,” Clover says, matter-of-fact, and offers Qrow his hand, “this time you’ll be dancing with me instead of playing wallflower, and no  _ unsavory soldier types _ will interrupt us.”

The flush returns to Qrow’s cheeks. He can’t help the smile that flits over his face, giddy and unabashed. “Aren’t you an unsavory soldier type?”

“I’m your exception, remember?” Clover teases, and then he winks, damn him. “So? May I have this dance?”

Qrow purses his lips, or he tries to, and makes Clover wait a little while before taking his hand. “I suppose,” he concedes, playful about it. “If you must.”

And so Clover whisks him back to the ballroom, loud music thudding in their chests as they meld with the crowd. For a moment, everything is easy; holding Clover’s hand is easy, dancing to the music against his broad chest is easy, getting lost in the music is easy. Qrow thinks he hears Ruby call to him distantly, but the sound is gone just as quick as it came, either under blaring speakers or from Yang cutting her off.

And every so often, a slow song plays, and Qrow is allowed to press into Clover’s space and just  _ sway.  _

It’s here that Qrow finds himself hours later, their fingers laced together and his head resting on Clover’s shoulder, Clover’s free hand at the small of his back and his mouth nudged against Qrow’s jaw. The song ends, slow and sweet and something out of a fairytale— 

And the lights flick on.

Qrow lifts his head and realizes they’re the only two left on the dancefloor, and all that remains of the evening is fallen streamers and littered punch cups and the fading click of heels as the last couples filter out of the ballroom. “Oh,” he says.

“Whoops,” Clover replies, cheery in a way that means he’d been perfectly aware that they’d overstayed their welcome. He steps back, shifting Qrow’s hand in his own just to bring his knuckles up to kiss. Qrow feels like he’s burning underneath his clothes. Clover asks slyly, “Did I keep my promise?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?” Qrow asks, flustered.

“Maybe.” Clover’s grin turns a little less teasing. “Can I walk you to your room?”

Qrow nearly sputters. As if he’d say no, as if he wouldn’t spend as much time as he could looking at this man in his tailored suit. He has half a mind to invite him in once they get to the door. Would that be asking too much? He likes Clover. More than he should allow himself to, considering his track record for relationships.

But he’s sober now, and Clover isn’t afraid of his semblance, and Qrow likes him so, so much.

“Sure,” he says finally, and can’t help feeling pleased when Clover keeps a hold of his hand as they leave the ballroom.

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, passing each other glances that are caught and cast away out of either pleased shyness or playful teasing. After a moment, Qrow starts, “You uh…” then pauses and clears his throat. The halls are dimly lit in the night hours and his mask is still on, but he feels like the flush of his cheeks is the most noticeable thing in the world. “You did, by the way. Keep your promise, I mean.”

Clover only glances at him before casting his gaze ahead then, pride showing in his smile and visible way his chest swells. “I know,” he says, smug about it.

Qrow snorts and elbows him even as he keeps a hold of Clover’s hand. “Don’t get cocky,” he chides.

“Don’t I have a reason to be cocky?” Clover asks, stopping short and tugging at Qrow’s arm to bring him closer. “I’ve got the most gorgeous man in Atlas on my arm, and he spent almost the entire ball dancing with me.” His grin turns a little sharper. “You’ll have to forgive me if I feel a little oversure of myself.”

Qrow realizes abruptly, as some kind of heady warmth settles in his gut, that they’ve made it to his room. He realizes he doesn’t want to go in. He realizes he feels younger and freer than he has in years, like he could drag Clover into the night air and run through the dark streets with him, like he could stay awake for hours more and not get tired.

He says, “I think my date might be a little prettier.”

Underneath his mask, Clover’s eyes go wide, and a delighted laugh bubbles out of him. “Your date?” he says, pleasure in his voice. “And here I was trying not to be rude by making any assumptions.”

Qrow huffs, his attempts at being suave effectively ruined. Clover is cute. Clover is  _ unbearably  _ endearing. Qrow likes him so much. He says impishly, “I think anyone could tell you that one of my charm points is being rude.”

Clover looks him over, obvious about it, a slow up-and-down-and-up-again. “You have a lot of charm points,” he murmurs, low in his throat. 

“Do I?” Qrow muses. He tilts his head and finally drops Clover’s hand, eyeing the man’s emerald mask before reaching up half-way towards it, pausing to ask silently for permission.

Clover lowers his chin and leans forward in invitation, and Qrow pulls the velvety ribbon from its bow at the back of his head. Clover is just as handsome without the little jewels and sequins and painted gold; Qrow might even argue that he’s more so without it, with his sharp cheekbones and his sculpted brows and his sea green eyes.

“May I?” Clover asks quietly, fingers brushing against the feathers near Qrow’s hair. 

And because Clover is so close, Qrow only tips his chin up to dare him. And maybe to entice him into a kiss.

Clover delicately pulls silken cords from their neat, looping tie. Qrow closes his eyes as Clover pulls his mask away, and opens them quickly when Clover’s sharp intake of breath reaches his ears. 

“What?” Qrow asks, finding him staring.

Clover stays silent for a moment, lips parted before he bites his lip gingerly, eyes flitting over Qrow’s face. “…You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and reaches up again, this time to brush his thumb near the edge of Qrow’s mouth, only barely avoiding smudging his lipstick. 

Qrow flushes darker than his makeup. His lips are painted a matte carmine, his eyes a smoky silver with wings at the corners, lashes long and full. “Oh, uh…the girls kind of just…bullied me into it. I don’t usually wear all of this.”

“They did a good job,” Clover says, appreciative. “It’s enough to take a man’s breath away.”

As if on cue, all the air rushes out of Qrow’s lungs. “They’ve got good taste.”

Clover presses a little closer. A feat, with how little distance is between them already. He tilts Qrow’s chin up, looks at him with half-lidded eyes. “Think they’ll be mad at me if I mess it up?”

The heat in his voice sends a little shiver down Qrow’s spine. “Like you care.”

Clover chuckles and kisses him, firm and wanting and hungry. One kiss turns to two and three and Qrow puts his hands on Clover’s chest, pushing him backwards. Clover goes where bidden, grunts softly when his spine hits the door. Qrow swipes blindly at his keypad, thumbs in his code with muscle memory, and it must be good fortune that keeps him from typing it in wrong while Clover’s tongue is slipping past his teeth.

The door slides open and Clover takes his weight off it just in time, lets Qrow back him into the room and ruck up his tucked-in shirt. Qrow bites Clover’s bottom lip, moves down to his jaw when Clover inhales sharply, leaving a visible trail of red kisses down his throat and over the edge of his buttoned collar.

Clover yelps quietly when his knees hit the bed, but falls to it without struggle. When Qrow doesn’t follow him down, he looks up with wide eyes, breathless and looking like an abandoned puppy at the loss of touch.

Qrow flashes him a crooked grin and wipes at his mouth. The back of his hand comes away red; there’s a similar mark smeared over Clover’s lips. “I’m gonna go wash the rest of this off,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “You care about that suit? It’s nice.”

“Uh,” Clover says eloquently. 

Qrow turns away towards the bathroom. “There’s extra hangers in the closet,” he calls over his shoulder, then shuts the door behind him.

It occurs to him, as he leans over the sink and looks in the mirror, contentedly eyeing his ruined lipstick and the rosy color of his cheeks, that their masks are outside on the floor of the hallway, left behind like glass slippers.


End file.
